the people who lived here before us
also loved succulents cuttings and ferns
that bend into the mornings. they made their way
up here while the whole city was breaking camp
into this way and that, they sent the children
to gather the firewood, told stories,
knew that we were all here from the same names,
summer fox, weathered home, gooseberry moon.

late at night you tell me that once you walked
into a santa barbara bar without any cash and
someone bought you a drink and the
world was made. the guy said, there are
wolves in the mountains and then he left to pee.
wait a minute, you asked, you wanted to know which
mountain and what kind of wolves and which world
and what time? wait a minute, he said, what sea?

i think about this story in the mornings when i wake
without knowing where i am and where i have
come from, which seems all too often these days.
on the northern most tip of this island i can almost
see my yearning like a contagion, disseminating
all over the air particles. we all meant so well, but
it is a terrible thing to travel for love.